47 Fixes for 47 Seconds
by eccentricityincarnate
Summary: 47 ways for our favorite couple to get together in the mess that 47 Secs made. Chapter 3 - "'Cut the act, Kate,' he says gruffly. 'I know how you feel.' ...She's suddenly shy, ducking her head. 'I didn't know I was so demonstrative about it,' she murmurs."
1. Chapter 1

**Hey, guys! I'm sorry for not making this into an independent story like I promised, but I felt too good about it being in 47FF47S. Plus, I couldn't think of anything to add to it. I liked where I left it.****  
**

**Disclaimer: I do not own _Castle_. All hail Andrew W. Marlowe and ABC!**

* * *

Chapter 2

47 Fixes for 47 Seconds

Alexis decides it's time to fix Caskett and decides to shove them into a domestic role to do so.

* * *

"Uh. Hi."

He blinks at the speaker, bewildered. Because she's in his kitchen, her bare feet betraying how much taller he really is when she's not wearing heels.

She smiles sheepishly, then breaks eye contact to focus on the cutting board before her, chopping lettuce swiftly and rhythmically. His brain doesn't even really register the crunch and the sound of metal on wood. He's frozen.

Alexis emerges from the stairwell, flushing profusely when her dad turns his attention to her.

"Um. Dad. Kate's cooking for us tonight," she says lamely, eyes darting toward the brunette – who is currently biting her lip – and back to him, worrying her lip in the same fashion.

_Kate. _When did his daughter's relationship with the detective become so intimate?

He feels betrayed, ambushed. Is this how she's going to let him down easily? Display this tender domesticity and then crush these fulfilled fantasies with some softly-spoken – but cutting all the same – words?

Here he is again, strung along, helpless.

And Alexis – did she rope the detective into this? Decide to put his moping to a stop?

Fine. He needs to hear it, needs that closure anyway.

* * *

She watches uncertainly as he lumbers over to an island stool, pulling it out with a screech and dropping himself into it.

Alexis shoots her an anxious look, and she attempts a reassuring smile. It must be convincing, because Alexis scurries back up the stairs. Or perhaps she's simply perturbed by the palpable tension swirling thickly through the downstairs portion of the loft.

Even through her exhaustion, she smiles at the thought of the petite redhead and their exchange this afternoon.

_When she realizes that the person donning scrubs and entering the morgue is not Lanie, she abruptly jumps down from the examination table and hastily swipes at her eyes._

_"__Detective Beckett," Alexis addresses her warily, setting down her clipboard without removing her eyes from the elder woman. _

_"__Uh. You just missed her. I just sent Lanie home for the night," she says, attempting a watery smile._

_The young Castle sighs in defeat, as if acquiescing to something within herself, then darts forward to take the brunette's hands in her own._

_The other woman starts, but flushes pleasantly at the show of affection._

_"__You _do _care," Alexis murmurs, and Kate tenses, unsure of what she means. "Come on. Do you know the saying, 'The best way to a man's heart is through his stomach?'"_

Retrieving a wine glass from the designated cupboard, she fills it and approaches him quietly. If he feels her presence at his shoulder, he doesn't show it. She sets it down before him. She slips away again.

Can't help the impulsive trail of her fingers on his back, a needy diagonal drawn across his shoulders as she retreats.

The timer chirrups happily, and she winces at the sharp noise, stabs at the oven until it stops. She peers in at the lasagna, bubbling away, but can't bring herself to be hungry. She closes the door, adjusts the timer again.

She allows herself to lean wearily against the counter, feels it dig into her hip and ah – she thought she was doing better with putting weight on. For the last few days, she's felt frail.

She pushes the week's emotions away, stomach turning. Brushing the few wisps of hair that have escaped her bun out of her face, she busies herself with the salad once more.

When she looks up, he's looking directly at her. He fixes her with a peculiar look and—and despite his actions this week, it's not distant. Empty.

She can't quite pinpoint what it is, but she's relieved all the same.

She doesn't break his intense gaze. Instead, she wants to offer a reassuring smile or a kind word.

She doesn't run, in the literal sense of the word. But saying nothing, denying him and herself even such a simple exchange, feels a lot like running.

* * *

That's not fair.

She's just teasing him now, he's sure of it.

Her fingers traipse lightly across his shoulder blades and he nearly hisses – in pain, pleasure? – at the contact. _Why are you doing this to me?_

And then she's leaning over, presumably to check on whatever is in the oven. Whatever the reason, his eyes drift down the irresistible line of her back and then…

Yeah. He swallows thickly, tries to draw his gaze away, but she's wearing his favorite pair of slacks that she owns, the ones that hug her ass and accentuate every. Damn. Curve.

He looks back up at her head guiltily, waiting for her to turn and realize he was getting an eyeful, reprimand him. But nothing happens.

He doesn't—he can't… She's making it so hard to flick the switch when she stands barefoot in his kitchen, exchanges looks with his daughter, brushes against him like it's nothing when it's _everything_.

She turns, and he doesn't remove his gaze from her face. He knows every contour, every edge and plane on her face. He's already decided what it must be like to kiss her cheek, how soft it is and how much it would give under his lips. He figures that her collarbone tastes exactly how she smells – a cocktail of cherries, vanilla, and coffee – and that he could get her to make a sound if he paid special attention to where it meets the base of her neck. And her lips…

Well, he already knows what kissing her is like, and has enough fodder to last him a lifetime of fantasies.

Without thinking, he voices his thoughts from earlier. "Why are you doing this to me?" he groans, then freezes again when he realizes what he's done.

* * *

"Why are you doing this to me?" he blurts out suddenly.

Kate suddenly stops churning the salad within the bowl, but her body has other ideas and continues the motion in her stomach.

"What?" she whispers, can't find her voice.

"Why are you _teasing _me?"

"I'm not—I don't understand," she stammers. She looks at the array of vegetables in front of her and tries to remember if he's ever mentioned an unfortunate experience with cherry tomatoes.

He scrubs his hand over his face in frustration. "Don't think I don't know what you're doing," he snaps. "When I fell for you, I knew somewhere deep inside that you couldn't ever feel the same, but I had never thought you could be mean about it!"

Silence falls upon them, except for the sound of his labored breathing, as she attempts to process what he's said. Her face grows hot at the mention of his feelings for her, but then she goes completely cold when she replays his outburst in its entirety.

"Couldn't feel the same?" she repeats dumbly.

He scowls into his wine glass and downs it in a few gulps. "I understand, Beckett," he sneers, and she cringes because it's _Beckett _again. "I'm just a friend, a partner, not one-and-done material. But you didn't have to _lie to my face _for almost a year. And now, what? Can't stand to see me stop hanging on your every word, so you decide to keep up the charade?"

She can't keep up with his monologue, picking at the words before she can even think to construct a response. She sees him go to continue, so she hastily jumps in.

"Castle, I can't—can you just—? I'm not sure I understand. Can I have a moment to think before I give you an answer you deserve?"

His mouth opens, but he seems to think better of it and snaps it shut. He nods at her soberly.

She closes her eyes for a moment, considering his words carefully—

"So…so you think that I don't"—his eyes darken, daring her, so she thinks _fuck it _and throws cautious word choice to the wind—"_love_ you?" she asks incredulously.

He meets her gaze miserably, but she thinks she sees something like hope flare in his eyes for a split second. "Well, you don't," he says flatly.

"And you think you can decide that for me?" she snarls, and everything wrong that has happened this week, she realizes now, was simply simmering under the surface, and it all comes boiling over. "Who are you to say what I do and don't feel? Did you even think to talk to me before walking out on me? Because I would've told you that I do!"

There's a pause.

"What?" he asks quietly.

"What?"

"You do. You do what, Kate?"

She softens. This isn't how she imagined it would be when she first told him. She doesn't want to say it angrily. Gently, she says, "I love you, Richard Castle."

* * *

Five words.

Five words are all it takes to turn his world upside down.

She's looking at him tenderly, soft green eyes swimming with affection.

It's all he's ever wanted and yet it feels so wrong.

"Then why did you lie to me about not remembering your shooting?"

She's visibly stunned, as if he just slapped her across the face. "How did you..?"

"When you were interrogating that suspect during the bombing case. Bobby."

She nods, then squeezes her eyes shut in horror. "I did lie," she finally chokes out, "but not because… God, Castle, not because I don't feel the same way."

He watches her throat bob as she swallows.

"I lied because – I don't even know why. I panicked. I was scared, I was broken, I was a mess. Someone was out to hurt me, and maybe even the people I care about. You deserved better than that."

"I've never deserved you," he says fiercely, slamming his fist onto the counter and nearly making the empty wine glass beside him topple over.

He stands, and she begins to round the island towards him, eyes never leaving his.

"I said always," he says gruffly. "And I meant it. Don't you dare try to shoulder something like that on your own. I'm supposed to help you."

She ends up standing in front of him.

Carefully sliding the wine glass aside, she steps closer and snakes her arm around him.

He shudders in delight and grips her waist, feeling his entire being thrum with hers.

She has to tilt her head back slightly to meet his eyes. "I know that now. And I could tell you the same."

He draws back a centimeter to gawk at her.

She smiles weakly at him. "I went to put my gun in your office, like I always do—"

_Shit._ He can see it now, the Johanna Beckett virtual murder board on display for her to see—

"No more," she whispers, breath caressing his cheek. "Not alone. Together. I can't lose you."

A flashback brings him back to the terror of green grass and bloodied white gloves, then the journey down the immaculate hallway of a hospital… He straightens, determined.

"No more," he agrees, then lurches forward and slants his mouth over hers.

* * *

Fisting his hair, she drinks from his mouth desperately, deepening the kiss and drawing groans from their throats.

As their mouths move rhythmically, desperation ebbs away and is replaced by pure, unadulterated longing. Lips slow, kisses are wet and smacking rather than open-mouthed and hard. There is time in between for gentle declarations of love, soft apologies.

"Guys, is dinner—oh."

Their mouths jump apart, but they're still joined by their arms, when Alexis appears on the stairs.

As if on cue, the timer dings shrilly.

"Yeah, it's ready," Kate says shakily, but managing to smile brightly. "Are you hungry?" she asks the teenager, disentangling herself from Castle and throwing him an apologetic look. It's not necessary, though, because he crowds behind her, even while she's taking the baking dish out of the oven.

"Well, yes," Alexis says, "but I was actually only asking because you guys got quiet. I wanted to make sure one of you hadn't killed the other. But, um, that obviously wasn't the case."

Kate has to laugh at Castle's mortified look, thumbing the lipstick off of the corner of his mouth. "Don't worry, Alexis. We're good. We're really good."

The redhead smiles cheekily. "Great. So can I begin negotiations for a younger sibling?"

Castle's jaw drops and he shoots his daughter a panicked look, along with a "cut-it-out" motion in front of his throat.

Kate is still busying herself with the lasagna, answers without looking up. "I wouldn't worry about negotiating. It's a done deal."


	2. Chapter 2

**Seriously, thank you all so much for your support. I was feeling a little frustrated about my other chapters of 47FF47S, so I took them down for editing. I feel really good about this one, so here you go!**

**Also, I'm truly sorry to those I told I would continue Lofty Expectations as its own story. However, I didn't feel like I had anything left to say with it. I think it's best ended there, with a hint of playfulness and mystery! Thank you so much.**

* * *

Chapter 2

47 Fixes for 47 Seconds

Drunk Caskett leads to drunk angst leads to a strange proposal leads to love and mending.

* * *

"You can't do this to me."

He can't hide his surprise at the choked exclamation, jumps back as she staggers into the loft without an invitation.

She's all dressed up, curls immaculate and arranged around her face and descending down her shoulders, curves accentuated by a sequined blue number that he's never seen before and already longs to fist in his hands.

Wait. Stop.

He tries to quell his desire, remembers that he's angry – furious, and formulates a single-syllabic response.

"What?"

She turns back to face him, but stumbles, grabs his elbow to steady herself.

He flinches at the contact, but allows her to use him. _She already has, hasn't she? _he thinks, laughing humorlessly to himself.

"Can't leave me," she whimpers, presses it out between pursed pink lips that he wants to worship with his mouth and feel vibrate with her moans...

"Beckett, I don't under–"

"Kate," she corrects sharply. "I'm Kate to you. Where've you been?"

He feels his muscles tense as he stands his ground. "Working," he responds tiredly, and adds mentally, _on getting over you_. _Making this love go away._ But there's so much of it, like water on a rapidly-sinking ship, and he's the unfortunate vessel.

"I don't believe you," she says, raising her chin. There's a pause. "Is it her?"

He stares. Does she mean...?

He's tempted to say yes, just to spite her. _I'm not your puppy anymore. _But that would be lying, and make him just as good as her.

"No," he says. "I'm not seeing Jacinda."

"So it's me, then? I did something wrong?"

His silence seems to be an answer for her.

"Tell me what I did, and I'll fix it," she cries, and tears make her eyes glisten more.

He hesitates, and it's clear that she can see his inner turmoil. They've always been friends, and he could argue that she is his best friend. She's willing to mend what they have.

No. He turns away. Friends don't lie to each other – at least when it matters.

"You can't," he says wearily.

The door slams shut behind him, and he wonders what side of it she was on.

He doesn't have to wonder when her voice sounds again, and he almost turns at this.

Because tears have turned into hiccuping sobs. "I'm sorry I'm not uncomplicated. But I can be fun, can't I?"

Footsteps thunder closer, and he turns just in time to see her sway, normally-graceful feet catching under her as she hurtles toward him.

His hands instinctively come to her waist, catching her easily.

He sees it then, something that should have been obvious before in her brash actions and wild emotions, but that he didn't realize because he was blinded by his own haze of alcohol.

"Kate, are you drunk?" he asks incredulously.

She's always been careful after her father's downward spiral in the wake of her mother's death, showing restraint even after only a few drinks in the company of others.

He does enjoy her pink flush when she's just buzzed, the way she'll giggle and seemingly press up against him in their regular booth at the Old Haunt.

_Stop. You're angry. Angry._

"No," she huffs, straightening but not batting his hands away.

He should loosen his grip and step away. But he doesn't. Can't, not when she's staying here in his – albeit accidental – embrace and it's all he's ever wanted for her to simply let him love her.

"_Kate_," he says lowly, a note of warning in his voice.

"Yeah," she sniffs. "But you're not exactly sober, either, are you?" She looks pointedly at the glass on the counter, the last few heavy, syrupy drops of whiskey pooling under the ice.

He shakes his head.

"Our timing is marvelous," she mutters in frustration, and he can't, for the life of him, figure out what she might mean.

What does she mean? He can't decipher her anymore. Did he even know her at all?

He releases her with that thought.

She pads, barefoot – when did she remove her crazy high heels? – towards the counter, uncaps the liquor bottle, and tips it until it spills, golden, into the glass.

She doesn't retrieve another glass.

She simply takes a swig of it, wincing at the burn, and holds it out to him.

He gapes at her, stares down into its contents. He can't—he can't put his lips where hers have been. It's too much for him.

But she's quirking an eyebrow at him, and it's suddenly a dare. He brings it to his lips without another thought.

* * *

He can't help how his eyes trip up the smooth expanse of her thigh where blue fabric is rucked up dangerously high.

She's lounging back against the armrest of the sofa, her twinkling laugh somehow matching the sound of the ice cubes clinking around in the glass she clutches.

His eyes travel back up, and oh.

She's returning his gaze through her eyelashes, eyes dark and conveying extreme interest.

He loves her. He drowns in it. _He loves her_. God, he wants...

He grits his teeth at being caught ogling, turns his head away sharply.

In his peripheral vision, though, he sees her slink towards him, bare feet and calves unfurling from underneath her to carry her to his side of the couch.

The cold, wet glass is pressed into his hand, and he takes another large swig.

"So you're not going to tell me what's going on?"

"So you're not going to tell me why you're all dressed up and hammered out of your mind?" he counters.

She smirks at his dry attempt at humor and responds, "Lanie demanded a girls' night. Your turn."

He huffs, glances over at her while circling the rim of the tumbler, collecting condensation on his index finger. "Bobby Lopez," he grunts at what he hopes is an incomprehensible volume.

She blinks, leaning in with her elbows planted firmly against her knees so that he can make eye contact with him.

He sees the wheels turn, slowed greatly by alcohol, but he can see the exact moment when it clicks.

"_Castle_," she breathes.

"Don't," he grits out.

"Don't _what_?"

"Don't make excuses. I know."

"Know _what_, exactly?"

He slams the whiskey onto the table with a resounding _bang _and stands suddenly. "I know you don't! Love! Me!" he shouts, and saying it out loud is what finally breaks him.

Tears he didn't know he was containing bubble over, an endless stream on his cheeks and dammit. He thought he was stronger.

She stands, too, and through the haze of tears he sees the confusion on her face. "Castle—what?"

"It's okay, Kate," he spits. "I'll save you the embarrassment. See? Isn't it easier for me to know than to have a big, fat lie on your chest?"

"I have _no idea what you're talking about_!"

"I'm talking about you being a coward, leading me on, instead of just telling me that you don't have feelings for me!"

She draws back, neither having realized that in the heat of the moment, their faces hovered closer and closer.

Silence.

"Cas—Rick," she chokes out finally. "How could you think, after everything...?"

"What?"

"God, Richard...I love you."

* * *

He lets out a heavy breath into the even heavier air surrounding them.

"Bullshit," he growls.

She removes the distance between them once again.

His eyes widen. He tries to step back, but his heel collides with the corner of the sofa.

"Excuse me?"

"You don't," he says with finality.

She lets out her own noise of frustration, something guttural at the back of her throat. "Who are you to say how I feel?"

"I would know if you did."

Her eyebrow arches perfectly and he cannot _believe_, living in their world of subtext, thatthey're speaking so openly about this.

Without warning, she reaches out and snags his elbow. He yelps in surprise as she shoves him gently onto the couch.

He freezes when she's suddenly invading his personal space, palms bracketing his hips. Because they don't...they never...but he _wants _them to-

He is, then, completely unprepared for the open-mouthed, sloppy, whiskey-laced kisses she's pressing against his lips.

While his mind is clouded, his body instructs him to tangle his hands in her hair with as much grace as a toddler and tug her to him. She responds enthusiastically to this invitation, crowding at his chest and _slipping her tongue into his mouth, holy...!_

He's snapped back to reality when her knees come to straddle his thighs.

"Kate," he gasps, forcing himself to grip her by the shoulders and halt her sweet torture.

She stares at him wordlessly. "You don't believe me, do you?" she whispers, and suddenly Confident Drunk Kate slips away until she's Fragile Drunk Kate again and she crumbles before him, collapsing in a heap against his chest. He feels, more than hears, her sobs and his heart breaks.

He has nothing to do but hold her and whisper sweet, meaningless mantras into her ear.

* * *

Her bare feet are drawn up close to her chest when he returns to the couch with a glass of water.

She sniffles softly, accepts the cup without meeting his gaze. She keeps her puffy eyes trained on one particular facet in the textured glass of his coffee table.

She downs all of it quickly, but again lifts the remains of their alcohol to her lips.

"What can I do to prove it to you?" she cries suddenly, and he tenses at the return of her distress.

"Kate..."

Her eyes widen suddenly and she straightens quickly, jumping to her feet.

"Castle! Marry me!"

* * *

He stumbles backward in shock, hissing as he knocks rather hard into the coffee table.

She takes a moment to coo at his injury, stooping to rub his knee tenderly.

_This is surreal_.

"Kate—what?!" he splutters.

"You've been married before!" she points out, as if this is the answer to everything.

"Yes, but I dated them first!" He begins to pace rapidly back and forth across the rug.

She scoffs. "Castle, let's face it – we've kind of been dating."

He pauses. "Are you kidding me?"

"Castle, how many meals do we eat together per week?"

He opens his mouth to respond with a low number but does the math. She's frighteningly right.

He sighs instead. "Kate, this is crazy!"

"Rick," she pleads, grasping his cheek in her palm, "you inspire me every day to be spontaneous. To look for magic."

He can only watch in wonder as she cants forward to let their foreheads and noses kiss sweetly. Their ragged breathing mingles between them, drowning out even the steady rush of traffic below.

"This is it, babe," she whispers, and he blinks at the endearment. "The way we work so well together. The way we finish each other sentences. The way our lives, our families, come together effortlessly. I don't believe in your kind of magic – leprechauns and wizards and time travel – but I do believe in us."

He's mesmerized by her and her words. She must take his silence as hesitation, because she turns to nuzzle her nose into his cheek and he feels her hot breath caress his face.

"Castle. You're my one-and-done."

"Okay," he breathes.

"Okay?"

"I'm saying yes. Let's get married."

* * *

He wakes up with a splitting headache...

...and a beautiful, wonderfully naked woman beside him.

He tenses, doesn't dare move. How could he have let this happen? His inebriated mind clearly hadn't considered the hurt of her changing her mind come morning and leaving him a divorcee again.

She stirs, lashes fluttering against his shoulder, and her following stretch is catlike, the leg thrown across his hip extending fully and toes coming to a perfect point.

He holds his breath.

She smiles up at him drowsily, presses a wet kiss against his collarbone and mmm. Kate. All of his anxiety melts away. She doesn't regret it.

She shifts, palming his ribs, and he feels the smooth ridge of her new ring pressed there – her mother's ring and its gold chain rest on _her nightstand_.

She lifts her chin to beam up at him, but frowns suddenly after a moment.

His heart thuds.

She reaches up to thumb the corner of his mouth. "Hopefully you didn't have that lipstick there when I was asking Alexis for your hand."

An unexpected laugh bursts from his chest, a peal of happiness escaping without his permission.

"Good morning, Mrs. Castle."


End file.
